


Wrinkled in pages

by smallestbrown



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:29:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallestbrown/pseuds/smallestbrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s leafing through a reprint of The Count of Monte Cristo when he meets Clarke Griffin for the first time. The first words out of her mouth are “Sorry, hi”.</p><p>Bookstore AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Working at a book store for almost three months, Bellamy quickly learns how much he loves the feeling of a tightly packed bookshelf. On sluggish nights, when the customers are few and sparse, he’ll stray in Political Science or Cooking or even the kids’ aisles, which always seem perpetually messy, fixing facings, alphabetizing and shoving paperbacks into place. There’s a sense of order that he deems a necessity, more so than many of the other seasonal hires. He can’t stand seeing a Collins read come before a Cabot. 

He’s leafing through a reprint of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ when he meets Clarke Griffin for the first time. The first words out of her mouth are “Sorry, hi”.

Bellamy turns around to face her grudgingly. No matter how good at shelving he may be, the ‘salesman’ aspect of his job isn’t his strongest suit. He’s thought about being a tasker instead, but the 6am shifts aren’t exactly appealing. “Hi, can I help you?” His voice tries to be bright, though it’s low and gruff from late nights studying and male puberty. 

“Yeah, where can I find art books?” She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear, glancing around. “Books about art. You know. I’ve been stuck in this maze for hours.”

Bellamy tugs an appropriate smile into place at her comment. “Let the customer feel comfortable,” he hears one of his managers, Nyko, saying. He’d managed to make an effort for the initial group interview, but there’s no doubting he was far from being the most engaging presence there.

“You’re lucky there’s no Minotaur in this one. I’ll show you where they’d be,” he says, sliding the Dumas novel back on the shelf and moving out of the aisle. He hears the customer let out a short laugh behind him as he walks. 

They’re at the wrong end of the store, so Bellamy fills the silence with the kinds of speeches he’s learned to spew out in his short interim at the store: promotions, popular choices, questions about interests. He usually keeps it discreet, but he’s got enough Art History classes under his belt to think up something.

“What kind of books are you looking for? How to’s, reference, a big picture book for your coffee table?” 

“Something interesting,” she says, and he glances back over his shoulder at her. She’s looking all around, distracted, thumbing the strap on her messenger bag. “Anything on Henri Matisse?”

“I’ll have to check,” Bellamy responds as he racks his brain for the name that the customer just mentioned. “Is he an... impressionist?”

“Fauvist,” she corrects. “Probably the king of the movement too. All the bright colors of an impressionist, but… With a palette that makes slightly less sense. Less landscapes, also.”

“Right, right.” When he pulls up to a shelf marked Art, he expects her to say “I’ll take it from here,” or some other form of kind but insistent dismissal. Instead, she stands at his side, hand hovering near her chin as she hums out the titles of the books on the shelves. Bellamy pulls out a few choices, which he hands off to her as he reads the titles: “ _Dialogue among Fauves, World of Art Series Fauvism_ , oh cool, _From Fauvism to Impressionism_.”

“From innocent mistake to actual book, huh,” laughs the customer, which takes Bellamy by surprise. Buyers aren’t usually prone to poking fun at the salespeople. 

She takes the three books he hands her, thumbing quickly through each one. Bellamy uses the pause as a moment to take her in, because he realizes, as his salesperson anxiety slowly dissipates in a cloud of having found something she likes, she’s quite pretty. 

Big blue eyes dwarfed by thin-framed, Harry Potter-like glasses, a light grey sweater, a black cloth messenger back strung across her chest. Blond hair that strings over her shoulders. She’s got the quiet concentration of someone who measures their words, who takes arduous notes during a lecture, who bites their nails when they watch boring movies.

Bellamy blinks. That’s too many details to pick up on a customer. A customer, he repeats to himself, as if to ring in his employee reflexes, and he takes a cautious step backwards, preparing to excuse himself. 

“I’ll leave you to look –“

“What about Andy Warhol?” she asks, before turning to look at him. If she hadn’t noticed that he’d backed away while she’d been digging into her books, she did now. She raises her eyebrows as if insisting and asking the question again.

With a “Probably, yeah,” Bellamy’s eyes flick back to the shelves, and she follows suit. They spend an awkward moment, the customer trailing her fingers along the spines, Bellamy allowing his height and eyes to do his searching for him, before he thinks to check the database. Politely and quickly, he excuses himself.

When he comes back it’s with an apology; “Nothing in the store by him, sorry. There’s a couple interesting ones in the system, like his autobiography, but I’m afraid we don’t have it on hand.” 

“Ah that’s fine,” she replies, obviously not too disappointed. She’s still holding the three fauvist titles he’d pulled out, alternating between reading back covers, front flaps and chapter titles. “Thank you,” she adds, looking directly at him for what is probably the first time in fifteen minutes. “Bellamy.”

This time his smile is real, if small, and he gives a nod as he moves off into the store.

He doesn’t think about her at all until she shows up two days later, sitting in a pile of science fiction pocket books.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to get angry and tell her to clean it all up, he wants to clean it up himself, and some small part of him wants to sit down with her in the mess. To read books, back to back. Or maybe with her nestled in his shoulder.

“Oh,” she says, looking up. “Hello again.”

“Hi.” His eyes skip over the titles in her hands; Asimov’s _Foundation_ , and Orson Scott Card’s _Ender’s Game_. A Shakespearian version of _Star Wars: Return of the Jedi_. “Good choices,” he remarks. 

She smiles, and for one instant all Bellamy can think of is how impossibly beautiful her smile is. The next instant, all he can think about is shelving those books. He frowns, and she sees it.

“Sorry for the mess. I have a friend whose tastes I can’t peg down, though I’ve been told sci-fi might fit the bill.”

He stands there awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do. He wants to get angry and tell her to clean it all up, he wants to clean it up himself, and some small part of him wants to sit down with her in the mess. To read books, back to back. Or maybe with her nestled in his shoulder. Bellamy blinks it off urgently.

“Have you read any of these?” she offers. 

“Asimov’s the greatest. For someone who loves to read, likes sci-fi, likes military and political intrigue, it’s a must-have.”

“And, you’re all of those things, are you Bellamy?” Her grin is conspiratorial, slightly flirty. He hates that he doesn’t know her name, or have her number in his phone.

“I’m majoring in history. At some point, you have to develop an affinity for dogmatic drama. If you don’t it’s… an uninteresting timeline. To say the least.”

“ _Et tu, Brute_.” 

He grins. “Exactly.” 

She starts to pick up her books and obligingly, he helps. His throat sort of aches to fill the silence, however pleasant, just to ask a question he’s afraid will be too direct. So he takes a detour.

“I’m Bellamy, by the way.”

“I know,” she grins, tapping the top of her chest, signaling his nametag. “I’m Clarke.”

Jackpot, he thinks, grabbing another pile of books. He motions for her to follow him around the aisles. “Nice to meet you, Clarke.” 

“Mhm, _et tu, Brute_.” Bellamy laughs out loud. “How’d the book you buy last time you were here fare?” he asks, re-shelving titles as they pass.

“Very well, actually. _Dialogue among Fauves_ was a bit more biographical, but the one on impressionism was top notch. You make a great salesman.”

“All part of the job.” She hands him some more books to organize, and he shivers unintentionally when he brushes her hand. He hopes he isn’t blushing; he feels like a kid in high school. 

As the pile of books diminishes Clarke is left holding _Foundation_ once more. “You’re sure?” she asks. “Not just beguiling an innocent consumer into purchasing unnecessary wares?”

“That’s a pretty wordy way of calling me a con artist, and no, not at all. I’m sure they’ll love it.” And for an instant, Bellamy pauses, shy, much shyer than he should be, and goes out on a limb. “I can recommend some other stuff if you like.”

She grins. His heart skips a beat, just once. “Sounds lovely.”

They spend the afternoon among the bookstore shelves. He’ll drift in and out to help customers and keep up the appearance of hard work for Nyko, and she’ll read the back covers of whatever poetry collection, biography, or cheesy coming-of-age story he’d find for her. To his delight, she eats it up. He recounts books about puzzle-solving kids, about the Baha’i faith. He talks about reading _Clifford the Big Red Dog_ to his younger sister. He feels open, but willingly so. Something about her makes him want to talk and talk, and to keep her close.

“You’re lucky I didn’t have plans today,” Clarke says, eventually. “This is not what I expected when I came to buy a gift for Monty.”

“The sci-fi friend?”

“Yeah. Point is, Bellamy, you’re very distracting.”

Now he’s certain that he’s blushing. He’s in full-high school mode.

He grins, and he has to look away briefly. He can tell Clarke’s eyes are still on him. 

Bellamy glances at the books in her hands again: _Foundation, The Opposite of Loneliness, Wonder_ and _The Bassoon King_. He glances at his watch. And he grins again.

“There’s a Starbucks next door, you know.”

“I do.”

“My shift ends in a half hour.”

“Does it now.”

“If you’re up for a bit more of a distraction.”

“I am.”

He watches her head towards the cash register, and he thinks about how willingly he would let this girl read him like a book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Books! I love books. If anyone wants to talk to me about books please do.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoy! chapter two to be delivered whenever possible.


End file.
